Remember that guy in Ghostbusters, the fourth Ghostbuster, the black dude who tells the Mayor, “I have seen shit that would turn you white!”? And then the Ghostbusters cross the streams and blow up Gozer the Gozerian, and old mate, covered in the white goop of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, claps his hands together and exclaims, “I love this city!”?

Well, gleaming Emerald City of Sydney, I love this city.

For starters, you can drink a beer on the Manly Fast Ferry. That’s civilisation. That’s why our forefathers fought at Gallipoli. An 18-minute harbour cruise later and you’re into Circular Quay and aboard a bubbling bus to the Sydney Cricket Ground for a Thursday night blockbuster: Sydney Swans and Geelong Cats. Bring it.

We roll up Oxford Street and veer off Anzac Parade and there, looming like gleaming watchmen, like Transformers of the Night, are the light towers of the SCG. It was these giant bad-boys that lit up the Cricket Ground in the late 70s when Kerry Packer’s World Series Cricket finally won over Australia.

These mighty towers have stood silent sentinel to some of Australian sport’s best-ever moments. It’s a cracker, “the Cricket Ground”; massive yet homely; fresh-mint-modern and classic-old-gold.

And then we’re in. And night becomes day. The joint is gleaming, white-gold under a black night. You couldn’t get better visibility lunchtime on a Tuesday. I weave between the Ladies Stand and Members Stand, past the statues of Steve Waugh and Stan McCabe, out the back of the Bradman Stand, and up some lifts and into the spanking new Media Centre.

Where there is … free beer! How long’s this been going on, Sydney Swans? Go to the press box at Leichhardt Oval you get a party pie and a can of Fanta. The media seats in Canberra are outdoors. In Canberra! Someone has a superb sense of humour in Canberra. Yet at Swans games there is free beer?

As they say: Yeah-nah. For it becomes clear I’m in the wrong place, the Media Centre being used as function room for “Centre Circle” types, a Swans supporters’ group who drink champagne and eat tasty small parcels of mystery meat. And good luck to them.

A girl in a black tunic offers me something on a plate. I raise eyebrows. What is it? “It’s pickled carrot with goat’s cheese,” she explains. It’s funny-looking, but delicious. Sort of zesty, a little zingy.

A man makes a speech and toasts “the game”. And the room toasts him back: “The game!” they toast. They draw a lucky door prize. I have another pickled carrot. Funny man Tommy Dean (funny man) does a stand-up gig. And if you ever wanted to know what’s going on in those private boxes, it’s the same as where you’re at except with glass, laughs and pickled carrots.

And then I wander about. And find a pew to watch some Indigenous dancers on the field. There’s a didgeridoo, and smoke, and well-fed blokes in red duds, dancing like emu. It’s the AFL’s Indigenous Round, a quality initiative. In a country with 2% Indigenous population, that the AFL is made up of 10% Indigenous players is quite amazing.

I head to the Brewongle Stand and take an old elevator to the seventh floor and the print media box. There’s a cylinder for hot water. Foam cups and instant coffee. It’s catering for Alcoholics Anonymous. I do not linger. Instead I find a Chinese noodle shop without any noodles or food of any kind. They do have sushi rolls. I buy a plate and a bottle of Coke for 16 bucks, and curse, a bit. The sushi’s been there all day. The Coke sprays out like champagne. Someone, perhaps from Canberra, is having a laugh.

The Cats run out. They play the Geelong song. In the way of Australian rules teams it’s a curious old “oom-pah-pah” sort of song, with lyrics sung in baritone, “We are Geelong, the greatest team of all”. I find a pew near some firemen, behind the goals and the Cats’ fans. They chant “Gee-long!” and clap, and repeat. Each time they do, some urchins on the fence reply “Sucks!”

The Swans run out, in a tight group, all tight and “team”. I played Australian rules until I was 18 or so. There’s lots of little rituals. Lot of close-talking by coaches. Warming up in tight groups. And around the ball everyone yells at once. After a while it gives you the shits.

The Swans burst through their banner. People sing the Swans’ own oom-pah-pah song – “Onwards to victor-eeeee.” The players head to their positions. The siren sounds like the foghorn on the QE II. The crowd roars. An umpire in lime-green bounces the hot yellow Sherrin and two tall men (called “talls”) leap to win the tip-out. Then a pack of smaller ones – rovers, ruck-rovers, “on-ballers” – scrabble for it with fast-twitch feet and hands, hot skill in high traffic.

The ball soars towards the Swans’ full-forward, a giant man-thing called Kurt Tippett, built in traditional “David” proportions but time-and-a-half, 50% more man. He flies and marks, and the crowd exclaims, Oh yeah. He lines up the shot. Misses right.

“Plugger would’ve kicked that with his cock,” remarks a man, describing the prowess of legendary Swans full-forward Tony “Plugger” Lockett. In the ways of men his mates try to out-do each other with the various methods and body parts Lockett would have kicked the goal. Love this stuff.

Tippett charges toward goal again. The ball soars over his head and he lunges and marks. And this time he kicks it. His team-mates come from everywhere, tapping each other’s bums, slapping hands. Mass congratulations. Pink shirts with drinks converge like Patterson’s curse. I eat a hot chicken roll. Find some mates in the Bradman Stand - Neo, Ades and Simon. We drink beer in the ways of men. And watch the Swans destroy the Cats of Geelong.

“Goodesy!” roars Neo as the Swans’ champion and Australian of The Year roves beneath a flying pack, hares across field and dobs a fine goal.

“Buddy!” roars Ades as the Swans’ force of nature comes off two steps and kicks the yellow Sherrin fully 50 metres on the fly to goal.

“Jetta!” roars Neo as the will-o-the-wisp Swans wing-man finds himself in a veritable paddock of open space. Renowned for long flowing runs, his legs lithe like Cathy Freeman’s, Jetta bounces the ball and kicks it straight to a Cats defender, who thumps it back over his head.

But it matters not. Swans skipper Goodes crumbs under a pack again, tears into the middle of the forward 50 and hooks a kick across his body to score. You can watch this stuff on television and appreciate the skills. But watching these things live … bit special.

There’s Nick Malceski, a full-bearded defender who launched a thousand copycat hipster beards when he kicked a famous goal in the 2012 grand final, a giant bomb that travelled far higher than it did long and sank the unhappy Hawthorn.

Half-time and the Swans lead by 50 or 70 or something, it could be 28,000 for all the resistance the Cats are putting up. They’re like the Swiss Navy fighting Saddam Hussein’s elite praetorian guard. Perhaps not that bad. But pretty bad.

Simon returns with four fresh cups of beer. “Jesus, that was intense,” he says. “The barmaid had a breakdown. Full-on. Boyfriend trouble. Poor girl. Tears everywhere. Heap of tears. There are tears in the beers.”

“Tears in the beers?” asks Neo.

“Tears in the beers,” confirms Simon.

The teams run out, do a lap of the centre-square, gather in tight huddles, their faces inches from each other, listening to their captain, getting the shits. No they aren’t. We bounce-off again, and resume normal service. The Cats can’t stop the Swans. Big Buddy has a shot from easily 75 metres out, just misses. Goodes kicks another goal, acknowledges the crowd by punching the air with his fist. Top stuff.

And from there it rains goals. Tippett, Franklin, Kieran Jack. Uniquely-named “Tall” Tom Derickx bags a double. It’s like Geelong aren’t here. It reminds me of a joke: “Three-quarter time and the Swans are beating Geelong by 20 goals. The Swans decide to head to the pub, leaving only Buddy Franklin. At full-time Franklin joins his mates. Says, “We only won by 15 goals.” “What the hell happened?” his team-mates ask. Franklin says: “I got sent off.”

In the third quarter: Franklin steps three Cats and hooks a giant left-footed goal from 45 metres out on an angle, a piece of skill and power that a thousand Russian circus performers couldn’t rip off in a lifetime. Franklin leads, he marks, he goals. And he does it again. The man’s a force of nature. Brendan Fevola once had this power. Plugger Lockett, too. And today, Big Buddy Franklin is The One.

And then I suprise the boys, a tad, and take off. For as much as I love this city and mighty old sports ground, there’s no mercy rule in Australian rules, and the Cats are smashed like pickled carrot.